


Mountains Bleed Black

by Non_Euclidean_Feels



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: 7 Days of Clexa, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Lexa (The 100), Blood and Injury, Clextober 2020, Dark Lexa (The 100), Day 5 - Creatures of the Night, Eventual BAMF Clarke, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Minor Character Death, Protective Anya (The 100), Soulmates, Vampire Lexa (The 100), Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:48:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27067384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Non_Euclidean_Feels/pseuds/Non_Euclidean_Feels
Summary: Within Mt. Weather, Clarke finds a healthier and more determined Anya. Instead of escaping with Clarke alone, Anya carries an unconscious boy with black blood with them, changing history as we know it.[Significant canon divergence from early S2]
Relationships: Clarke Griffin/Lexa
Comments: 72
Kudos: 221





	1. Ch 1 - A Bloody Nightmare

**Author's Note:**

> **TRIGGER WARNING: This chapter contains blood, complete loss of self-control, murder, and people enjoying murder. If you don't like reading about those things, this might not be the story for you :)**

The wound on Clarke’s arm throbs painfully in sync with her heartbeat. She raises herself up to sit more comfortably on the hospital bed, wincing as the movement pulls at her would. She might have overdone it a little when re-opening it to get into Medical; if there had been more time, Clarke would have found a better way in, but Sgt. Langston had walked out of Medical with a spring in his step. He hadn’t looked like a man that had suffered from severe radiation poisoning just hours earlier. Clarke knows that radiation poisoning is tricky and difficult to treat, having witnessed a few cases on the Ark when people hadn’t sheltered properly during a solar flare.

It should have taken weeks to recover from.

A quick look around the room assures Clarke that she is still alone, spotting no guards through the glass in the door. Good. They probably think she’s too weak, not able to cause trouble in her state. They’re wrong.

The bed up against the far wall catches Clarke’s attention. Or rather, the wires running from the bed to a large machine standing by the bed — a dialysis machine to treat blood, if she’s not mistaken — and then through a hole in the wall.

_That’s not right. They’re supposed to go back to the patient.._

She’s already noticed the large vent cover above the bed with the tubes; the latch and small warning sign being enough invitation for Clarke to get closer. The cover opens smoothly, obviously well-oiled, and she heaves herself up into the small maintenance and air-conditioning duct, ignoring the spiking pain in her arm as much as she can.

Pulling the vent cover back in place behind her, Clarke crawls slowly through the uncomfortable space; limbs crashing into the metal surfaces with every other movement and leaving bloody smears behind, unseen in the darkness.

A myriad of near-silent, soft, sounds can be heard up ahead and Clarke wonders if it leads to a machine room of some kind. It’s not on her map, so hopefully something with an exit to the world outside.

_Ugh, what in the world.._

Yeah, no. That doesn’t smell like machinery. Nothing like the comforting scent of warm metal and motor oil that had clung to Clarke’s father; that still clings to Raven, even after weeks on the ground. No, this is a far heavier smell. Pungent and dirty, a terrible combination of unwashed sweetness, barely covering the sharp scent of bleach and industrial detergent. The smell brings forth memories of surgeries gone wrong, as if they’ve been left untouched and been allowed to fester and rot. Clarke’s stomach twists with unease.

She reaches the grate at the end of the duct, finding no other branches in the relatively short passage. Ignoring the increasingly potent smells, Clarke pulls the vent cover up and jumps down into the dark room.

Then the sounds register. A chorus of pained whimpers and heavy, exhausted, breathing. A low, anxious, murmur building in volume as Clarke feels dozens of eyes suddenly on her. She doesn’t understand the language they speak, but a few words seem familiar. Lincoln had taught her a few Trigedasleng phrases before the doomed meeting at the bridge.

_Wait, what? What are Grounders doing inside Mt. Weather?_

The weight of so many eyes on her causes her to push back up against the wall as her eyesight adjusts to the dim light emanating from the security door off to the side. Grounders. Hundreds of them, locked in dirty, grimy, metal cages. There, just to her left, are chains holding two Grounders upside down; tubes of blood running to a machine beside them. Draining them.

Sudden clarity runs down her spine, causing Clarke to shiver violently. She moves closer, looking for a way to get the grounders down. Blank, unseeing, eyes stare back at her unflinchingly. Unmoving. Her training finally kicks in and she moves to check his pulse. The feeling of cold clammy skin causes Clarke to jerk her hand back. 

Dead. Both of them.

A raspy and hoarse voice snarls at her to get away, to leave the dead alone. Clarke can’t help but agree; there’s nothing she can do for them now. She looks around for the source, but the cages are stacked high and with so many weak and weary faces glaring at her, it’s impossible to pinpoint whoever spoke.

This is so, so, wrong. Clarke has issues with the Grounders and their aggressive ways, but this… this treatment of people is simply inhuman. Dante Wallace’s kindly face burns in her mind, the memory of his painting feeding her anger immeasurably. Clarke’s itching to let them all out and help them escape, except she doesn’t know where the exit is.

She hurries up and down the aisles of cages looking for a door or anything to help them when an arm shoots out of a cage and catches her wrist. She stumbles in surprise, turning to lock eyes with a furious Grounder.

“Anya?” The words slip from her in a quiet gasp at the sight of the powerful warrior locked in a small cage. She looks strong, but there is fear swimming in the recess of her eyes. Grime covers her face, yet she looks better than the others. Healthier. “You survived?” Clarke stops herself, obviously the warrior survived. With stilted movements, Clarke moves forward. “The people here, the Mountain Men, they said we were the only survivors.”

“You’re one of them!” Anya’s words are hissed and Clarke can feel spittle land on her face. She’s pulled closer to the cage as Anya snarls at her. 

“I’m not! They locked us up too, and I’ve been trying to find a way out ever since!” Clarke tries to reign in her anger. Really tries, but it still bleeds through. She’s so tired of everyone thinking the worst of her. Clarke can help, well, she can help Anya. Guilt flows through her at the thought, but it’s true. Anya seems to be the healthiest Grounder here and won’t slow them down while escaping. She must hold a high rank in their society too, having been the one to both meet them at the bridge and lead warriors to them. Maybe she can help them get back in to rescue their people?

“Look I know you don’t believe me. You’ve got no reason to trust me, but we need to get out of here. They’ll realise I’m missing soon!”

Anya’s gaze turns calculating, but keeps the harsh edge. It feels penetrating, like she’s trying to weigh Clarke’s soul. Determine her worth. A sharp nod and Clarke feels the crushing grip on her wrist letting go. She gasps, finally able to force herself to breathe again. Time is not her friend, but it still takes her a few minutes to shake the surprise of finding Anya. 

Hurriedly, Clarke looks around for something to open the cages. A section of ancient, rusted, piping against the wall catches her attention. One section hangs open, whatever connection it used to have having long been removed. Tugging on the disconnected piece causes it to slide out surprisingly easily, though with a crunch of rust cracking and the screech of metal sliding against metal. Her head snaps to the door, desperately wishing that nobody heard.

  
  


Moving back in front of Anya’s cage, Clarke quickly locates the padlock keeping the cage shut, placed far from the small hole used to feed the Grounders that Anya had been able to reach through to grab her through. The pipe slams down hard on the lock, but it doesn’t budge. Again, and again. Clarke lets her frustration loose. It’s no use; she’s simply not strong enough. 

Stopping to think about her situation, Clarke knows she doesn’t have a lot of time left. Surely someone will have heard the noise she’s caused by now. As fast as she can, she places the pipe in between a solid section of the cage and the lock, and pulls. The pipe acts as a lever, and after what feels like ages of pulling with her entire bodyweight, the lock snaps off and falls to the floor.

Anya swings the door open and slips out gracefully. An assessing glance passes over Clarke again, but Anya quickly snaps back to attention. She locks eyes with the nearest Grounder.

“Where is he?”

A hushed silence falls over the room as Clarke feels the intensity of the eyes on her increase. The reply comes in Trigedasleng, leaving Clarke wondering just who Anya is looking for.

She quickly gets closer to Anya, ready to pull her away to find an exit if she takes too long. “Come on, we have to get out of here. We’ll be discovered if we try to take everyone with us.” Clarke pleads, feeling their time slipping from her fingers like sand.

Anya looks her over with a harsh glare, causing Clarke to stop mid-step. She looks furious and ready to murder someone, but for some reason Clarke doesn’t feel like its directed at her. Well, not entirely. What really captures Clarke’s attention is the terror in that look, shaking her to the core.

Suddenly Anya tilts her head, as if listening to something only she can hear. Her head snaps to a spot down the line of cages and she rips the pipe from Clarke’s trembling fingers, before striding confidently down the aisle.

A single blow slams the pipe into the lock of a cage, peppering the floor with shattered pieces. Anya practically rips the cage open, before gently reaching in and extracting a small body. A young boy with messy, sandy hair covered in grime and a black oil-like substance. A whimper escapes as Anya crushes him to her chest.

Clarke has no idea who the boy is, but he must be important if the way Anya clutches at him is any indication. Abruptly, Anya’s hand flashes out to grasp onto Clarke again, dragging her along.

“Run. They’re coming.” Anya’s voice is a whisper, yet piercingly loud in the sudden silence. Anya leads the way to the back of the room, probably knowing about another exit. Anya stops them in front of a door with a sign that reads “End Containment Area” and Clarke can feel the excitement building within her. A way out.

Not a guarantee of an exit, but better than trying to force their way through the Mountain and its guards. The slow hiss of a pneumatic system can be heard, followed by a clang as the heavy security door behind them begins to slide open. Angry shouts of guards, clearly alerted to something going on echo through the room. 

There’s a resigned look on Anya’s face as she hugs the boy’s unconscious body closer. She wrenches the door to the exit open and steps through, Clarke quickly following behind her.

It slams behind them.

“Brace yourself.” In true Grounder fashion, Anya doesn’t explain what Clarke needs to prepare for and the small enclosed room has no clues either. She doesn’t have much time to think about it, as an alarm starts blaring and the floor tilts below them and Clarke _falls_.

The space below the floor turns out to be a steep chute, absolutely covered in blood and grime. The smell of rot wafting up from below has Clarke gagging, while attempting to stifle the scream trying to tear its way out her throat.

The screech of the siren gets fainter as they drop lower and lower, until finally Clarke finds herself landing on something both soft and uncomfortably hard. An uneven, squishy, surface with hard edges. 

As soon as her eyes focus enough to look around, Clarke stills. Bodies. She’s lying in an old mine cart full of bodies. The gagging gets worse and she can feel the tell-tale pressure building in her throat. She lets the vomit fall over the side of the cart, before getting out as fast as she can. She staggers over to a pile of clothes and picks up some for Anya and the boy, knowing that the cold temperatures of the tunnel will get to them fast.

Anya is still in the cart, looking at the pile of bodies with a horrified look on her face. Just as Clarke steps closer, telling Anya to put on some clothes, she finds herself pulled back into the cart. “Reapers!” The words are hissed quietly, right beside Clarke’s ear as she is pushed into the pile of bodies. Not knowing the urgency, but following along, Clarke copies Anya’s movements and pulls a lifeless Grounder on top of herself to be better hidden. Clarke notices that once again, Anya makes sure to protect the boy in her arms before covering herself.

The approaching footsteps are heavy and interspersed by indistinct grunting. Something heavy lands on the body above Clarke’s and she tenses as the cart screeches and begins to move down rusty rails.

The cart is moved slowly down the corridor and it feels to Clarke almost like it’s going upwards. Groaning to a halt, the cart shakes for a moment, before a weight is lifted off Clarke’s chest.

The sounds of the reapers feeding makes her want to be sick again, but they quickly fade into the background as they walk away with their meal. 

Getting out of the cart, she’s stopped by a hand on her shoulder. “Help him down.” The quiet command from Anya has her turning to find the boy held outstretched in her arms, as if he weighs nothing. Automatically, Clarke steps forward to gently lower him to the ground.

“Anya, the reapers, what are they?” Clarke has to know. What could make anyone so sick they’d want to eat another human?

_“Pakstoka.”_ Anya’s growl is laced with hate. “Our people. Somehow the Mountain Men make them go feral.”

Clarke wonders what the word means, not having heard it before. Her thoughts are distracted, however, by the boy now in her arms. He whimpers again, and she looks down to check him over for injuries.

A gasp tears its way out of her throat as she realises the black substance on his skin seeps slowly from needle wounds in his arms. 

_What have they done to you?_

He’s covered small puncture wounds from needles that have dug violently into him. They’ve drained him, more than once, that much is certain. He’s lost a lot of blood and Clarke isn’t sure what the Grounders were fed. If they even were.

He needs food. Safety. And, they’re still in the tunnels under Mt. Weather. They really, really, need to get out.

_“Yu gonplei ste odon.”_

Clarke has heard those words before. Memories of a young girl that she couldn’t save swims in her eyes. Anya’s Seken, Tris. The angry crack of bone being snapped causes Clarke to look up, only to find Anya wiping blood from her face with one hand, while the other gently closes the eyelids of the Grounder whose neck she just snapped.

Anya jumps out of the cart with smooth graceful movements, casting a last sorrowful look at the cart filled to the brim with the bodies of her people. Tensing her shoulders and standing straighter, Anya looks every inch the warrior Clarke knows her to be. Without a word, she gently takes the boy back from Clarke’s grasp.

“They’ve done something to him. His blood.. It’s, it’s black. He’s lost too much of it, too. We need to get out of here, Anya.” There’s an amused glint in Anya’s eyes that Clarke doesn’t understand, but it fades to a steely determination as she talks about them escaping. She’s half expecting Anya to leave her behind, but the woman stays silent for a moment. 

Considering.

Anya tilts her head and Clarke swears that she can see her sniffing the air. 

“This way.”

Anya leads the way confidently down one of many branches in the tunnel, making Clarke wonder just how she knows where they’re supposed to be going. The sound of hurried, clunky, footsteps behind them makes her drop the thought, instead picking up the pace. 

Slowly but surely, Clarke can feel the air clearing up. It loses some of the musty and earthy tones, instead reminding her slightly of the river the delinquents had found on one of their first days.

Fresh and clean, with a bite of cold wind brushing against her. 

She stops beside Anya as the tunnel stops and gives way to a massive drop. They’re up much higher than she had anticipated, being able to look out over the forest and into the water far below them.

It sounds like the guards are closing in on them and Clarke doesn’t have any time to consider how they’ll get down, as suddenly she finds herself being pushed off the edge by Anya who follows close behind.

She wakes slowly. Her body shivers from the freezing cold; her soaked clothes offering no protection against the cold wind of the forest. Checking herself over before opening her eyes, Clarke finds nothing broken. 

She’s bruised, sore, in pain and extremely exhausted. But, nothing is broken and that’s enough encouragement for Clarke to open her eyes. She quickly shuts them again, blinded by the light of the sun. Taking her time to adjust, Clarke slowly sits up. A hand above her eyes shield her from the worst of the glaring light as she looks around. 

Anya is standing right in front of her, wearing a smug expression and worried eyes that constantly dart between the boy in her arms and Clarke. She steps closer, hauling Clarke up with one hand, as if she was a weightless child.

“You’re coming with us, Klark kom Skaikru. You killed three hundred of my warriors and you have knowledge of the Mountain. Heda will decide what to do.”

_Heda? Wait, who does she think she is?!_

Clearly Anya sees the defiance brimming within Clarke, because she simply smirks and lifts Clarke higher. It’s not until Clarke feels her feet leave the ground that she realises just how strong Anya is.

The implied threat hits Clarke like a bat, causing her to cease struggling. If Anya can lift her off the ground with one hand, then Clarke doesn’t stand a chance.

Anya spots the Mountain Men in the distance, wearing their protective clothing and carrying large rifles. She sets a gruelling pace, keeping a tight grip on Clarke as they tear through the forest.

However, the Mountain Men manage to keep pace surprisingly well, likely being able to follow in the wake created by their frenzied rush through the forest. Clarke struggles to keep up, forcing Anya to slow down a little.

There’s a dull thud as a dart slams into the tree just beside Clarke and her eyes widen. Tranquillizer darts. The Mountain wants its prisoners back. They pick up the pace as more darts sizzle through the air around them. One lands a step beside Clarke, and she stumbles with the intent of picking it up. However, Anya catches her and pulls her along before she has a chance. 

Somehow they manage to lose the Mountain Men by increasing their pace again. Anya doesn’t allow Clarke to slow her down, tugging her along relentlessly. 

Clarke is certain that they’ve gone in circles and criss-crossed through the forest to leave confusing trails, but still the Mountain Men aren’t far behind them. 

Anya has been blaming her for it, claiming her noise was loud enough to even attract a Pauna from so far away, whatever that is. But Clarke isn’t so sure, and with mud covering their clothes and all exposed skin she knows they’re not visible.

They’re being tracked and Clarke slaps herself in realisation.

“Trackers. They’re using trackers.” Her exclamation is meant with a deadpan look.

“Of course they are, how else would they be following our trail?”

“No, I mean.. A tracker is a piece of technology. Small enough to fit under the skin.” Anya’s eyes widen with understanding. “Check to see if you have any bumps, they might have put one in you when they took you in.”

Anya finds the bump in her forearm, and before Clarke can stop her, she bites into her skin and spits out the little tracker into her hand.

“You too.” There’s no trace of pain in Anya’s voice, just the same steely determination that shines in her eyes.

And yeah, so maybe Anya is right. Clarke should check herself over, but she’s not the only one. “Check him over as well, but don’t you dare bite it out. He’s lost too much blood already!”

Focusing on herself for a moment, she runs hands over her neck and shoulders. Down her arms and torso. Clarke swears as her hand brushes against a bump on her inner thigh. 

“I need a knife.”

Anya stops what she’s doing and swivels to face Clarke with an unreadable expression. “They put one in my thigh. I need to cut it out.” 

Anya scans her face, looking for any tell of a lie, but slowly nods as she finds nothing. The grounder clothes they had found in the tunnels had contained a few knives and Anya had stripped Clarke of hers while she was unconscious.

“Try anything and I will kill you myself.” The words are cold and laden with promise. Clarke doesn’t doubt their sincerity as a dagger is held out for her to take.

She rips a piece of cloth off her mud-soaked clothes and pulls down her pants, ignoring that she’s standing half-naked in front of the Grounder.

The Mountain Men had been sneaky, placing the tracker under one of her bruises, so she had ignored the pain when she woke up inside the Mountain. Now though, Clarke bites down hard as the sharp dagger digs in, carefully avoiding cutting too deep. 

Blood wells from the fresh cut, staining her brown clothes with bright red. Clarke drops the bloody blade on the ground beside Anya, feeling the woman’s stare intensifying as her own fingers reach into the wound. It’s slippery and unsanitary, but they need to move. Her fingers catch around the small tracker and she pulls it out with a whimper as the wound stretches. 

Anya holds out her hand, holding the other tracker, with an almost hungry look in her eyes. She licks her lips as Clarke deposits the tracker and moves to bandage her leg.

“Aden has one too. Forearm.” The words are clipped and nearly growled out.

Clarke is about to reach for the knife, offering to cut it out, when Anya pulls another, clean, blade from her waist. She makes quick work of the tracker in the boy’s arm; Aden, Clarke reminds herself. 

Clarke stares as black blood oozes lazily from the cut. Training snaps her out of her thoughts, and before she has a chance to think about it, she’s ripped another strip from her clothes.

Anya looks at her in surprise as Clarke moves to bandage Aden, but doesn’t make a comment.

As Clarke is making sure that Aden won’t bleed out more than he already has, Anya is wrapping the three trackers up in a ball of fabric from her own clothes. She waits for Clarke to finish bandaging Aden, before she picks him up and starts pacing. They have stopped near the river, the soothing sound of the flowing water helps conceal Clarke’s relieved gasp as Anya throws the trackers into the water; surrounded by the fabric they gently float on the surface as the current carries them away.

Clarke looks down at the ground to find the daggers gone, already removed by Anya. She shakes her head, unsure how she’ll get away from the Grounder and back to her people. She’s already seen the weather balloon in the distance, so they can’t be far, but Anya has been leading them in a different direction.

A look at the boy in her arms gives Clarke an idea. “Anya, he needs help.” Clarke isn’t above pleading and she truly is worried for him. “My people.. We can help him. He needs blood to replace all that he’s lost, but I.. I need equipment from camp.” 

Anya stops and shoots her an amused look, as if Clarke is an idiot. The expression breathes fire back into the embers of anger deep inside Clarke. With a defiant snarl, Clarke stands back up.

“Is this a game to you?” She barks angrily. “He’s a kid, Anya. He doesn’t deserve to die in this forest from blood loss. If he doesn’t get help, you might as well leave him here for the animals or reapers to find!” The moment the words leave her mouth, Clarke knows she’s overstepped.

Anya no longer looks amused. Her stance has changed from being somewhat open to being ready to attack Clarke with a moment's notice. Lips shaking with anger, threatening to pull back over her teeth. 

“Watch your words, Skaigada.” Anya threatens while taking a step forward, eyes locked on Clarke’s. “Your people are no better than the Mountain Men. They would not hesitate to cut us down should we be seen.” Clarke tries to interrupt, but Anya simply raises her voice. “You did. Why would they be any different? Why should I trust them with his life?”

Clarke is caught speechless. She had murdered three hundred people; in self-defence, sure, but so many lives lost because of her. Her anger is smothered under the crushing weight of the guilt. She’ll never regret protecting her people, but the price was high. Too high.

She can’t tell Anya that her people wouldn’t do the same, because Clarke knows they would. Would do worse, given enough incentive. 

“I.. What I did was to protect my people.” Clarke begins, haltingly. “You would have done the same. But, Anya, he needs help and so do we. I know you want to get your people out of the Mountain, and I do too, but you can’t do that without our help. Without our tech.” She pauses to watch the considering, yet still doubtful, expression Anya wears. 

“Aden will be fine.” Anya states it like a fact, with such certainty that Clarke almost believes her. Almost. “If Heda — our Commander — agrees with you, then, and only then, will you be allowed to speak with your people.”

Clarke baulks at the command, at being treated like a prisoner. Did she only exchange one captor for another? It’s not a gilded cage and Anya is being brutally honest, so at least it’s better than the Mountain Men. For now.

She considers attacking Anya, knowing that Aden is her weak spot. Yet, at the same time Clarke can’t force herself to attack a child. He’s so young, so innocent. 

She can’t.

Clarke has too much blood on her hands already. She’s exhausted and so, so, tired of fighting; she wants to find a comfortable spot to curl up in and to sleep for a day or two.

“Your Commander, will he help get our people out of the Mountain?”

Clarke needs the reassurance before letting go on her hope for freedom. If it means her people will get free, then she’ll go willingly. The Grounders won’t be kind to her, she’s certain. Not after having killed so many warriors, but her life for her peoples? It’s not even a choice.

“We have lost many to the Mountain. Thousands. Before you invaded our lands, the Mountain was our greatest enemy and we are the first to have escaped. You are the first to have seen the inside. The Commander will hear you out.” 

Once again Anya sounds so certain, so confident, that Clarke wants to believe her. “How can you be certain? Wouldn’t she just kill me for my actions at the dropship?” 

A flash of anger crosses Anya at the memories Clarke’s words must dig up, but they’re suppressed before Clarke has the chance to blink.

“The Commander was my Seken.”

A sigh escapes her lips as Clarke stands, resigned to the fact Anya can only give her a chance. At least Anya seems convinced that the Commander will want to get the Grounders out. It’s the only hope Clarke has, now that she thinks about it. 

The people of the Ark wouldn’t believe her, a criminal. She won’t even know if her mother survived the fall. As surprising as the thought may be, it carries a slight relief with it. Clarke isn’t ready to face her mother. Not yet, not knowing her mother killed her father. 

Raising her head, she meets Anya’s impatient glare with a dejected nod. “Let’s go.”

————

The trek through the forest is a quiet affair after their argument. Anya remains stoically silent, answering only in clipped sentences when Clarke attempts to start a conversation.

As they travel, the forest changes noticeably for Clarke. Gone are the somewhat familiar surroundings of the area near the dropship, replaced with the denser foliage she remembers from near the bridge they had blown up. 

There’s an eerie silence surrounding them, the forest absent of the sounds of wildlife leaving only the sound of leaves cracking under clumsy footsteps and of the wind whistling between proud trees. Clarke isn’t the only one affected by the silence, as Anya grows more and more tense the further they go.

There’s a faint sound in the distance, distinct and different from everything around them. It’s not an animal and Clarke can’t place it, despite it feeling familiar. Anya freezes in place and raises her hand for Clarke to stop. 

“Fayagon.” 

The whispered word is one of the few that Clarke knows — _gun_ — and it causes a shiver to run down her spine. So far from the Mountain the only ones that would have guns are her people. 

It happens again, and this time Anya doesn’t stop to listen. Setting a furious pace, she sprints through the forest with Clarke doing her best to keep up. She’s gasping for breath by the time Anya finally stops to grab her. The trees have thinned a little, and Clarke can see the outskirts of a village. A few people are standing in the middle of a dirt-trodden street waving their arms around. They seem familiar.

The crack of a gunshot sounds again, much closer this time. There’s voices in the background too, indistinct, but Anya’s face contorts with a wince and a frown that deepens. The grip on Clarke tightens, before she’s pushed up against a thick tree. 

“Stay here. Protect him with your life.” Anya is desperate. It’s a plea and order all in one, and Clarke is too confused and exhausted to make sense of it. She looks up to find Anya’s eyes darker than before. Deeper. They seem to pull Clarke into their depths as Aden’s limp body is pressed against Clarke, and her arms wrap around the frail boy automatically. 

Anya blinks, and for a moment Clarke is certain that her eyes turn bright red, but then when Anya speaks Clarke can’t focus on anything but the words. 

“Protect him. Keep him safe.”

Clarke’s mind is empty, save for the words now reverberating through her very being. They keep her focused on her task; to protect Aden, at all costs. She doesn’t notice Anya stepping away with regret written all over her, and doesn’t hear the whispered “I’m sorry.” 

Aden must be protected. Must stay safe.

A second passes and a roar causes Clarke to act on her orders. To keep Aden safe, Clarke needs to know what to protect him from. With a single-minded focus she shields Aden’s body with her own, before leaning to look at the village.

With a calm detachment Clarke observes. Watches as Anya sprints faster than ever before into the village, how the roar seems to originate from her. She’s a threat, but not against Aden. Clarke disregards her.

The two figures in the street, however, are. One has a pistol aimed at a villager on the ground. Blood seeping from a fatal wound, her mind supplies. He turns at the sound of the roar to see Anya rushing towards him at inhuman speed.

She recognizes him. Finn. A threat to Aden. 

Clarke pushes Aden behind the tree a little more, wanting to ensure a stray bullet wouldn’t be able to catch him. A movement from the other boy — Murphy — catches Clarke’s attention as he grabs for Finn’s weapon, trying to disarm him. Not a threat, her mind labels. 

It’s too late, however, as Finn manages to fire a shot off before the gun clatters to the ground.

Anya doesn’t even flinch as red blood sprays from her arm. She’s bearing down on them, kicking the gun a dozen feet away before jumping on Finn. Punches fall faster than Clarke can see, and dimly registers the sight of Finn’s arm being broken. 

Clarke doesn’t move. Aden must be protected.

A villager emerges from a house and starts speaking with Anya, but she doesn’t seem to hear him, continuing to pummel Finn. A shout rings out — _“Heda!”_ — echoed by villagers in other houses as a figure comes running from the opposite end of the street.

A threat. 

Clarke can feel an itch at the back of her mind, screaming at her about the danger of this new individual. She doesn’t know why though. It’s just a girl, admittedly wearing fierce paint and carrying two swords. 

The newcomer steps closer to Anya, ignoring the violence, and gently lays a hand on her shoulder. Anya freezes in place. From this distance it’s hard to tell, but it looks like Anya is shaking as she slowly gets on her feet.

The woman by Anya’s side is definitely a threat. 

Unfortunately for Clarke, Aden is slowly beginning to wake up. A whimper escapes him and he starts to move weakly against the trunk of the tree. The woman’s head swivels to look in Clarke’s direction, as if in slow-motion.

She doesn’t know how or even why she can see it at this distance, but Clarke swears the eyes that stare at her are green. As green as the forest around her.

They’re getting closer, she realises with a start, her mind having frozen even more. 

Protect Aden.

The command rattles her into action Clarke pulls back behind the tree to hover protectively over him.

She can’t run. Unlike Anya, Clarke isn’t strong enough to actually carry Aden through the forest. She’ll protect Aden. Will keep him safe.

Suddenly the woman is in front of Clarke, taking in the scene in front of her with widening forest-green eyes. They dismiss Clarke, immediately locating Aden. 

Clarke notices the movement, chastising herself for not being able to hide Aden from the woman. She moves slightly to cover him better.

“Get away from Aden.” The warrior's voice rings with a command, but Clarke won’t — can’t — move. She crouches further over Aden, protecting him with her own body.

The woman frowns, before her eyes shift back to Clarke, who feels like she’s being evaluated. Scanned. Catalogued. She’s laid bare in front of this warrior. 

Green eyes widen minutely, but Clarke catches any and all movement from this threat against Aden. 

“Oh Anya, what have you done?” 

Abruptly, the forest-green eyes that Clarke is so intently focused on flash a deep golden colour that seems to seep into everything in sight. Clarke’s mind returns to a semblance of order, finally letting her process what’s happening.

_Finn.._

Clarke barely has time to blink the golden light from her eyes before it happens again. Her world tilts and everything goes dark as the soft voice utters a word Clarke doesn’t manage to catch.

“Sleep.”

————

Her thoughts are sluggish and hazy. Indistinct and fleeting, like water running through your fingers. It takes a while for Clarke to pull herself together. To sort out which thoughts are her own, and which — “Protect Aden” — aren’t. It’s a difficult process, made harder by the confusion lacing everything. Where is she?

She’s laying on something soft and there are voices speaking quietly somewhere nearby. The words are muted and Clarke realises she wouldn’t understand even if she wasn’t caught somewhere between sleep and full awareness. 

“Klark kom Skaikru.”

It’s the same voice. The one with the green eyes and the golden flash of light. Clarke is firmly being pulled from the warm embrace of sleep. Was it even sleep? She can’t tell, and now isn’t the time to consider it.

Her arms are heavy as she tries to move them, shifting herself as she fully leaves the protective cocoon of sleep. It’s a struggle, but eventually Clarke manages to sit up and open her eyes. 

She’s in a wooden building, though one wall seems to be made of a tent-like material. They’re in the village. It’s the only place Clarke has seen with any type of building that isn’t from before the bombs. 

“You’re the one who burned three hundred of my warriors alive.”

That statement causes lightning to flash through Clarke, clearing away the last of her hazy thoughts and focusing her like nothing else would. Her eyes finally lock onto the girl sitting in a throne by the wall, fierce warpaint lining her eyes. 

_My warriors? Does that mean.._

“You’re the one who sent them there to kill us.” It sounds more like a question than the accusation Clarke had intended it to be.

A pregnant pause fills the air, while Clarke struggles free from the furs she’d been lying in. She stands slowly, stretching her limbs as much as she can without looking confrontational.

“I am.” The words are firm, no regret or apology present.

“Then you must be the Commander.” A sharp nod is the only reply she receives, while the Commander plays with a knife in her hands. From Clarke’s interactions with Anya, it’s become clear that Grounders don’t mince words. Get to the point, or don’t get there at all. A surprisingly refreshing mindset from usual politics of the Ark. 

Clarke raises her head to stand as straight and proud as she can, while her mind is still screaming at her that this woman is a threat. “I did what I had to do to protect my people.”

“I know.” 

And that, that’s not the reply Clarke expected to hear. There’s none of the expected hatred or anger, no inflection promising violence or retribution. It’s a simple statement of fact, detached. It throws Clarke more than she’d like to admit, which is why she takes a moment to look around the room. 

They’re alone. Anya isn’t there — blood spraying from her arm as she runs towards Finn and Murphy — and when Clarke looks down, expecting to find Aden, she’s overcome with a foreign panic.

“Where’s Anya? Where’s Aden? I have to..” Protect Aden. “I have to protect Aden?” Her voice trails off into a question at the end, unsure why she said that or why she reacted that way.

“It’ll fade. Anya was rather heavy-handed with her command.” The Commander sounds annoyed, but not at Clarke. She feels so confused.

“What’s going on? What happened to me?” Clarke plays the memories back and gets stuck on the images of Finn shooting at Anya. “Where’s Finn? Did he really shoot Anya?” 

Forest-green eyes pin Clarke in place. “You were commanded to protect Aden. It is a power we use sparingly, and most of my kind can only command one person at a time. It is why Anya didn’t use it to escape.” 

Her kind? Anya must already have told her about our escape. Just how long was I out for?

“As for your friend,” the word is spat with contempt, “attacked this village, claiming we were keeping you captive. He wouldn’t believe my people when they said you weren’t here, and he managed to kill nine people before Anya stopped him.” There’s the expected hatred, the anger and promise of violence. It curls around her words, lacing them with unmistakable menace. 

“Four were children.” Her hand is tight around the handle of the dagger and her eyes are flinty. Clarke’s knees start to buckle at the thought of four children dead at Finn’s hand. At Clarke’s hand, because he was looking for her. 

“He will die.” Another statement of fact and Clarke doesn’t doubt it for a second, even if her heart demands she do something to stop it. 

“Fifty lashes; five for each injured or killed.” Clarke’s heart squeezes in her chest at the thought, but the Commander keeps talking. “He will be branded as an outcast, never to be reborn in these lands.” Angry eyes watch Clarke’s every reaction. “And finally, his blood will soak the ground. He is not worthy of the life-blood his veins carry”

“The other boy, Murphy, tried to stop him, but he still invaded TonDC. He will receive five lashes and be let free.” There’s a trace of compassion and warmth in the voice now, but all Clarke can focus on is the fact that Finn will die. She can’t risk a war with the Grounders, and needs them to get into the mountain. One life for the many. Just like with her own life, it’s not even a decision for Clarke. There’s one choice, and one choice only.

“Please, you don’t have to do this.” Still, she’s going to try. Maybe she can spare him the pain.

“I do. Anya told me what’s happening in the Mountain. Your actions against my warriors were in a war. Regrettable, but understandable. War is war, but this was an unprovoked slaughter of civilians.” 

_“Jus drein jus daun.”_ The words are stated softly, like an explanation and curse all in one.

“Please Commander, my people will see this as an act of war too. It would be torture.” Clarke begs, needing the warlord to understand just how badly it would be seen by the people of the Ark.

“And what does your people do with murderers?” The question is asked in a friendly tone, but the flash of gold in the Commander’s eyes has Clarke talking before her thoughts catch up with her. 

“We float them. Execut-” Clarke slaps a hand over her mouth to stop herself from talking. It’s a struggle to keep it there; a need building within her to finish her sentence.

The eyes flash again and Clarke’s hand drops limply to her side. Her voice continues on its own in a slight monotone. Inside, she’s panicking at her loss of control.

“Execute them. In space there’s no air and it’s incredibly cold. They’re unable to breathe and die within moments.” She stumbles backwards, falling over the furs behind her. “What’s happening to me?” She stops herself, focusing instead on the thought of what will happen to Finn.

“Commander, I know he’ll die. I know he has to.” A tear trails down her cheek at the thought of what could have been. “But, please, I will do anything to get our people out of that mountain. Anything. I can explain his death as justice for his actions, but to torture him would start a war.” 

The smug smile on the Commander’s face makes Clarke think she said something she shouldn’t have. Going back over it, she doesn’t know what it is, but the Commander’s smile only widens as she licks her lips. 

“Very well, Klark kom Skaikru, a swift death it shall be.” 

Clarke can’t shake the feeling that the Commander is laughing at her. It only intensifies as she steps down from her throne and passes her.

“A word of advice.” The Commander’s lips lift in a vicious grin this time, showing off pearly white teeth with sharp edges. 

“You should watch your words better, they’ll come back to bite you.”

————

Clarke is left alone in the room after the Commander has left, and it’s only then she realises that the Commander had never given her name.

Hours pass in solitude, nearly driving Clarke crazy with the lack of information. Food and water is placed silently just inside the door by a warrior who barely glances at her before leaving again.

She can hear excited voices and constant commotion outside, but it’s not until dusk that Anya comes for her. The warrior is dressed in armour and wearing warpaint similar to when they first met at the bridge.

Clarke scans her for injuries; the sight of blood spraying from her arm still vivid in her mind. There’s nothing. No bandages covering a wound and no sluggish or stilted movements indicating pain. 

Jealousy sparks deep within Clarke at the thought of not being in pain. She’s still sore and hungry, weak after a lifetime of malnourishment and too little oxygen.

“Come, it’s time.” Clarke looks Anya in the eyes, searching for any sign of red. She finds nothing.

_I must be losing my mind. Maybe I never escaped Mt. Weather._

She follows behind Anya in a daze, walking from the candle-lit room into the eerie twilight of the forest. There’s a crowd of what must be hundreds of people congregating at a square just down the road. Anya leads the way, the crowd splitting before them as they pass.

Eyes slither over her, causing Clarke to flinch slightly in on herself. She’s not sure if she’s been drugged. Maybe she’s still sleeping? Her fingers find the wound she had cut in her arm to get into Medical. Maybe, just maybe, Dr. Tsing had been right to be worried about her.

Because surely she must be hallucinating.

Anya’s eyes are shining in the dark, and she’s not the only one. A few people in the crowd stand out like lights in the darkness, their eyes capturing Clarke’s attention and making her more certain that she’s dreaming.

Or, Clarke realises, it’s a nightmare. Anya stops them off to the side of the square, where they’re afforded an unimpeded view of a makeshift stage with two poles; Murphy and Finn leashed tightly to them.

Murphy has a few bloody lines running down his back, his punishment clearly already having been carried out. The crowd seems excited at the sight. 

A hush falls over the gathering as the Commander steps forward. Her eyes are like green pools of light in the dim light, and she sweeps them over every single person present.

“Today we regained one of our own. Onya kom Trikru, thought lost to the Mountain, has returned to us.” A cheer wells up from the crowd, addictive in its strength. “But, we also lost nine people to the delusions of this murderer.” She gestures angrily at Finn behind her. 

“A man, no boy, from Skaikru has murdered our people. We deserve justice.” The Commander briefly looks at Clarke before continuing, and Clarke has to hold her breath to prevent herself from speaking out. “Klark kom Skaikru, however, has made a deal with me.” A few snickers break out from the crowd, and once again Clarke wonders just what she’s done wrong. 

“In return for her aid with the Mountain and in dealing with Skaikru, the murderer will receive a swift death.”

The Commander’s eyes are blazing and her smile is vicious in the light of the torches lining the stage. She turns to the warrior standing by Finn, gesturing for him to be cut down. Surprise flashes through Clarke, followed by uncertainty at the building excitement in the crowd. Finn stands free from restraints, except for the strong arms holding him in place.

“His blood isn’t worth the effort it would take to spill.” The Commander’s voice rumbles over the crowd, silencing everyone.

A gesture to one of the warriors causes them to hand Finn a knife, while the warriors hurry back. Finn looks down confused for a moment, before thinking he’s been given a chance to escape. He looks up to find the Commander staring at her.

Clarke sees Finn’s face suddenly being bathed in a dim golden light, and instinctively she knows the Commander’s eyes just changed colour. The realisation hits her before the commanding words reach her ears.

“Finn kom Skaikru. You will die by your own hand.”

————

Clarke watches in grim interest as Finn’s grip on the knife tightens. His hand raising to his throat, settling the sharp blade gently on the side. Panic is visible in his eyes, but there’s a dull complacency in the way he stares unseeing at the Commander. He knows, but he doesn’t. 

As the knife slices across this throat, Clarke forces herself to watch. Even if this is just a nightmare, Finn had been looking for her. Had been trying to save her, and here she is watching him die. Watching him kill himself.

She doesn’t notice it as the tears begin to flow unhindered down her cheek, and is barely aware that she doubles over gasping for breath. The image of Finn’s relaxed face but pained eyes is seared into her mind, and Clarke doesn’t breathe. Can’t breathe. A warm hand on her shoulder guides her through the crowd, back to the cabin she’d woken up in earlier.

It’s not until water is lifted to the mouth that she looks up to find Anya looking down at her with unusual gentleness. Even in the candle-lit room her hazel eyes are shining too bright, unnatural. 

“What… What are you?” The words are gasped, forced through the sobs Clarke hadn’t realised she was making. 

“It’s not my place to explain, Clarke, but you’ll know soon.” Anya apologises, throwing her a last unreadable look before leaving the room. 

Clarke settles herself against the wall, letting the tears fall freely now that she’s alone. All she wants is to wake up, safe and sound in Medical in the Mountain, finding the Harvest Chamber and all that’s happened during the day as nothing but a dream.

Except, Clarke doesn’t wake up. Not even as the Commander steps into the room. 

“I believe you owe me some information for my kindness.”

The Commander stops just inside the door, treating Clarke like a frightened animal, which probably isn’t too far from the truth. 

“Kindness?” Clarke’s voice is shrill to her own ears. “You call that kindness? You made Finn kill himself.” 

“Yes.” The Commander looks puzzled, tilting her head slightly to the side. “It was a swift death, as promised. I took the pain away after the first cut.” She sounds confused, like she had done Clarke a favour and doesn’t understand why she’s upset.

“And you just expect me to drop everything and tell you everything I know? Now? After all this? Whatever you are, you certainly aren’t too bright.” Anger burns through Clarke, twisting the sadness to a mocking last-ditch attempt at riling up the stoic Commander. “What makes you think I’ll tell you anything?”

If anything, her angry questions seem to amuse the woman rather than make her angry. 

“What makes you think you have a choice? You claimed you would do anything to save your people, Klark. Words carry power.” She stalks towards Clarke at a leisurely pace. “You have seen what I am capable of. I have no intention of letting you twist the truth to your advantage.” 

The Commander stops a few steps in front of Clarke, staring down at her. 

“I am Lexa kom Trikru. Commander of the 12 clans of the Coalition. I am Heda” She pauses to let the words sink in. Smirks. “My word is law.”

Lexa’s lips lift up in what would have been a kind smile in any other situation, but it quickly turns menacing as her teeth extend into fangs. A slender tongue slips out, darting carefully across the sharp tips.

“I told you, your words would come back to bite you.” 

Lexa surges forward with unexpected speed, sinking to her knees in front of Clarke and pulling her close. Clarke doesn’t even have a chance to defend herself as there’s a sharp sting in her neck, and her vision begins to blur.

————

“I told you, your words would come back to bite you.” 

And oh how Lexa has been waiting to do this all day. Ever since the human, Clarke, had said she’d do anything to get her people out of the Mountain. Honestly, don’t humans know to watch their words around vampires? 

It’s unusual, though. Lexa usually has better control of her urges and it’s not been that long since she last fed. Perhaps the sight of Anya flying into a blood-rage against the murderer Finn?

No. Lexa knows exactly when the hunger had first started. 

The anger at seeing one of her Natblida drained of their precious blood had nearly caused Lexa to fly into a blood-rage of her own. Only the sight of the enthralled human protecting him had calmed her. Clarke had been so _aware_ , so _active_ in following Anya’s orders. Normally humans would fight against a command unless severely overpowered, but Anya had been weak from blood loss herself. Clarke should have been able to fight the command. 

Should have, but instead she had taken it in, so deeply it even resisted Lexa’s attempt at flushing it out. Even after Lexa had forced Clarke to sleep, the command had persisted.

Even now, as Lexa’s tongue darts out to taste salty skin, readying her fangs, the command lays dormant in Clarke. She can feel it.

Can taste it, as soon as the first delicious drop of the blonde’s blood reaches her tongue. A rich metallic taste, so intensely flavourful that Lexa knows something is happening. It’s not supposed to be like this, not supposed to be so immediately addictive. 

But, Clarke’s blood is sweet and fresh, reminding Lexa of the berries growing in spring and how they would pop gently in her mouth, sweet and fruity. Clarke is the taste of fresh air after a long, demanding meeting with the ambassadors. 

Clarke is water, and Lexa suddenly finds herself more parched than a week-long trip through the Desert Clan would leave her.

Instinct demands she _take_ . Demands that she drinks _more_. 

A wild rush flows through Lexa as she gives in, dimly aware that this is serious. That it’s for life, but it’s too late. She’s already drunk too much, too deeply, and Lexa wouldn’t have time to step back even if she wanted to.

Clarke’s memories assault her far more relentlessly than imagined, Lexa’s lack of control only making it worse. Too far back. 

Watching Clarke grow up on the Ark is an interesting experience, tainted by the bittersweet reminder that Lexa never got to have time with her own parents. 

At first Lexa thinks Clarke is spoiled; that she thinks herself better than her peers, but the thought is quickly crushed under the weight of Clarke’s loneliness and sadness at being separated from everyone. It’s her mother that thinks herself better; who keeps their family sheltered and apart.

Clarke watches her father float out the airlock and the scream he lets out pounds through Lexa’s head. 

The memories of Clarke’s time in solitary nearly drives Lexa crazy with their cold, piercing, emptiness. A moment and a drink of blood and Lexa has spent nearly a lifetime of memories with Clarke. 

After the crushing boredom of solitary the fall to Earth feels like bouncing to another extreme. Lexa watches through Clarke’s eyes as she tries to organize the delinquents; tries to give them every chance to survive.

Some of them are caught in the acid fog, and Lexa feels phantom burns on her own limbs. Clarke grants them mercy and is rewarded with a crippling sense of guilt.

The human fights and fights, does everything she can to keep her people alive, yet everything continues to go wrong. The sickness that she had healed and the attempt at diplomacy at the bridge. 

The door of the dropship closes and Clarke pulls a lever. There’s a whooshing sound that Lexa knows spells death for three hundred warriors in one fell swoop. She can’t help but be impressed.

And then, the memories Lexa has been waiting for spill through the blood. The ones she had intended to watch. Clarke wakes up inside the Mountain. Clarke meets with their leaders and people, learning untold secrets with every breath and every glance at something left unattended. An unimpeded view into the stronghold of Lexa’s worst enemy. 

They’re an odd people, living by the old ways. They use old technology and eat strange food. The taste of chocolate cake makes Lexa feel sick. Too sweet and too heavy.

The Mountain Men lie to Clarke about Skaikru landing, telling her they had all perished in the attempt. An interesting fact, and something that makes it a little easier to envision a treaty with Skaikru.

Lexa burns with righteous fury as Clarke finds the Harvest Chamber. She tries to catalogue all the faces Clarke and Anya had left behind, wanting to know who had family members that would need to be notified. She notes the details, logging everything that would be useful in an assault on the Mountain.

They have so many more weaknesses than Lexa’s people had ever thought. 

Clarke’s trip with Anya through the forest is eye-opening. The blonde is genuinely worried for Aden’s health, thinking his black blood is due to something the Mountain Men has done. Which is a worrying thought, because Aden had been littered with marks from needles. They definitely have his blood. 

The weight of Anya’s command to Clarke makes much more sense now, and can feel it still pressing through the blood swirling in Lexa’s mouth. Clarke had wanted to protect Aden and Anya had intensified with a power nearly unheard of for someone that wasn’t a Nightblood.

Lexa has no desire to watch the events in TonDC again, still furious with the easy death she had granted Finn the murderer. Finally a bit more in control of herself and fully aware of the bond that has settled between them, Lexa gently slides her fangs out of Clarke’s neck, enjoying the last drop of blood as her saliva causes the wounds to close over.

She adjusts her position on the floor so she’s setting against the wall beside Clarke and pulls the human into her lap. Lexa feels the change within her on a fundamental level.

A hand comes up to gently play with Clarke’s hair, waiting for her to regain her senses. Lexa feels a slight sense of guilt tugging at her for her treatment of her mate, but pushes it aside. 

How could she have known this girl from the sky was her soulmate?

————

Clarke’s head is spinning. She feels faint, like she’s on the cusp of passing out. Strong arms keep her anchored and as the fangs in her neck retract, she shakes a little. A soft tongue gently caresses her two puncture wounds and Clarke goes slack with relief as the last of the pain subsides.

She’s floating in a comfortable darkness, fighting with herself about whether to wake up or fall asleep. The decision is taken from her when Lexa shifts them around. 

Her eyes open slowly, blinking owlishly up at Lexa. Clarke is held tightly against her chest, a hand playing with her hair with a gentleness she would never have expected the Commander to hold.

There’s a fondness growing within Clarke for the fierce warrior. She should be upset and worried about the fact, but for some reason it calms her. The powerful figure feels safe, despite how dangerous Clarke knows she can be. The itch at the back of her mind has changed Lexa’s label from ‘dangerous’ to ‘home’.

Their eyes meet, a primal understanding passing between them.

Clarke can feel Lexa’s excitement at the memories they now share; can feel her mind evaluating and discarding plans for battles and infiltrations. The awareness grows the longer their eyes remain locked, and suddenly Clarke can feel thoughts passing through.

It’s comforting when she should have been scared. It’s exhilarating, but Clarke is too tired to fully enjoy it. She has been literally drained and lets out a small giggle at the thought.

Lexa smiles down at her in amusement, her eyes turning a soft shade of gold before whispering into Clarke’s ear.

“Sleep.”

Clarke feels the command take root, tugging her down into the darkness gently. Just as the soft void takes her, a snippet of thought filters through their bond

**_Soulmate._ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story planted itself in my brain when I saw the prompt list for Clextober 2020 and just straight up demanded to be written.  
> It's a massive chapter and by far the longest I've ever written. The following chapters will be smaller, and I anticipate the story to end around 20k words total.


	2. Ch 2 - A Familiar Embrace

The girl in her arms is too light. Too thin. Even when she accounts for her extra strength, Lexa doesn't think Clarke should feel this weightless, not this fragile. While new memories — not quite her own — still course through her mind with the grace of a raging Pauna, Lexa has to take extra care. They've only just met; barely even had a proper conversation, and yet she already cares far too much. Far too strongly.

It's the bond. Has to be. Lexa struggles to contain the scoff that wants to be let out.

Soulmates.

Just about the only thing that could make the girl, Clarke, go from invader and mortal enemy — despite her actions in freeing Anya and Aden — to something Lexa struggles to put a label on. She remembers the stories, of course. Who wouldn't?

Legends spoken with quiet laughter and gentle smiles around bonfires late into the night, strained in the way that years of unfulfilled yearning can be. Stories that evoke a hope that even the most positive and outgoing amongst her people hide away deep within themselves, too afraid to be poisoned by longing for something they will never encounter.

Lexa had been one of them, except she'd been bold. Brash. One of the few that hated the thoughts of soulmates, seemingly so far-fetched and unbelievable. A person, made just for you. A match that would fill holes in your life; holes that you might not even be aware of. Someone who could handle the sharpest and most abrasive edges of your very being.

Yet another weakness for others to exploit.

She still believes that. Still believes that soulmates are a weakness. But, it's no longer a hidden fantasy, brought to life by earnest voices under a starry and moonlit night. No, it's far more tangible. Is slightly shorter than her, with pale blonde hair and a soft sleepy wheeze that Lexa shouldn't find this adorable. It's tangible and real. Addicting.

It might be a weakness, but already Lexa's mind is racing. Memories that had been carried with every drop of Clarke's rich metallic blood provide a level of clarity that she's unaccustomed to. So much knowledge. So much… distance. Perhaps Clarke is a weakness. No, there's no perhaps about it. Clarke is a weakness. Still drained of blood, and with Anya's command to protect Aden still affecting her, she's in need of protection herself.

But the thing is, weakness is not a permanent ailment. It can be overcome. Can be bent into a far more attractive and useful shape, hardening into something Lexa is very familiar with. Such a process, however, takes hard work. Dedication. And perhaps it's the lingering metallic taste of blood on her lips that Lexa blames the addiction on, but the rush in her veins and the slow powerful thud of her heart tells another story.

The bed dips below her, soft and supportive beneath her. Lexa shifts the furs that smell of warmth and comfort out of the way. This is her sanctum, as much as any room in a village far from home can be a sanctum, but for this trip, for tonight and most importantly, for Clarke, this room is safe.

Just as she moves to put Clarke down to allow her some rest, Lexa notices the state of the girls clothes. She'd ignored the filth earlier, caught up with the attack on TonDC by the mad Skai boy, Finn. Not a single thought had been spared towards Clarke's state of dress after the execution, not with the rich blood in her veins singing out to Lexa. The insider view of the Maun-de and the subsequent discovery of Clarke's life and their bond had been just as distracting.

Now though, she can't ignore the patches of dirt clinging to the blonde, or the clumps of mud hanging from her hair. She's filthy. Luckily, Lexa's handmaidens know her well. Knows that despite her rough public persona, she enjoys the softer things in life. The small luxuries, like the bowl of scented water by the bed. It's not heated, not with Lexa having forbidden anyone from the building today, but it's still clean. The sprigs of lavender and rosemary still lay submerged, and the small towel is unused.

With deft movements, Lexa strips Clarke of her dirty clothes, absently registering them as Trikru light armour. Anya's report from earlier comes back to mind, about them having taken clothes from beside their fallen people inside the Maun-de. No longer covered by the tattered garb, Clarke lays nude before Lexa, and she can't stop her eyes from trailing over surprisingly smooth and soft skin; over curves more pronounced than usually seen among her people.

The cloth comes away brown and murky, every rinse and swipe only managing to remove a thin layer of grime from Clarke's body. It's a slow process, but one that Lexa is used to repeating herself, after a long day battling either warriors or ambassadors. It might be beneath her station, but it's relaxing and meditative. Lexa is Heda, and thankfully that is enough for people to stop questioning her. Mostly.

When the dirt and detritus is removed, and when Clarke's skin is gleaming slightly from the thin layer of moisture left behind, Lexa rubs her down with a clean cloth, taking note of all the wounds and injuries. Cuts and bruises she now remembers intimately. Remembers receiving, and remembers their pain as if they are her own.

Lexa can't take away the pain. The weakness. She shouldn't. It would be so simple, though, and that's the main thought that rolls through her mind in this moment. The need to protect Clarke so overwhelming and foreign in its insistence. Turning someone is not something done lightly. Not for any of her people, but especially not for Nightbloods, and most definitely not as Heda.

But Clarke is weak, and war is brewing. Now might not be the time to turn her, and perhaps it would be prudent to warn her first. It's unavoidable, really. Just one of many steps that must be taken if they are to win, that much Lexa already knows. She can't turn Clarke. Not now, but she can ease the transition. Ease the pain and help the healing along, just a little.

Lexa brings a long finger up to her mouth. This part is usually the worst. One that she hasn't had to do many times in her life, one that she prefers the Healers take care of. Not with Clarke. Never with Clarke.

Her fang punctures the skin easily, black blood lazily welling up from the small wound. Attempting to suppress the urge to dart her tongue out to close it back up and to keep her blood protected, Lexa instead gently pries Clarke's mouth open with her other hand. She carefully allows a few drops of blood to land on Clarke's tongue, making sure to stay ready in case _those_ instincts kick in.

They don't. Instead of snapping up in search for more blood like Lexa had half-suspected would happen, Clarke's tongue swirls slowly before closing her mouth and smacking her lips. It's just been a few drops. Not enough to turn her, not yet, but enough to help her get better. To get stronger.

There will be questions. Clarke will undoubtedly be angry with her. Furious, with flinty eyes and hands that tense around nothing as she attempts to stare Lexa down. She smirks at the thought.

_It's for her own good._

—

She's on a soft bed. That's the first thing her sluggish mind registers. It's warm, and nothing at all like the cold days she's spent huddled up in the Dropship with the others, or in the barely wind-proof tents they had erected. There's a distinct lack of aches and pains, her arms and legs blissfully loose and relaxed.

Perhaps it has all been a dream. Maybe Dante Wallace hadn't been lying to her, and maybe the nightmarish escape from a room full of caged Grounders and through a forest had been just that. A nightmare. Hopefully the memory of shining eyes in the dark, and of Finn plunging a dagger into his own chests are nothing more than horrifying figments of her imagination.

_They aren't_ , Clarke's mind pushes— probes. It comes to her slowly, but the realisation of being pinned down by a weight across her middle helps her speed up as worry begins to settle in, her breathing picking up speed.

Anya. The boy, Aden. The forest. It all slams into Clarke, shaking off the dreamlike film that had covered the memories. She vividly recalls crashing through the underbrush, weaving through trees as they attempted to outrun their former captors attempts at getting them back. Everything blurs a little around the edges as she recalls Anya's command.

Aden.

_Where is he?_

Green eyes shining back at her. Green eyes that had seemed so cold and distant, the eyes of someone who saw through her and down to her very essence; eyes that found Clarke wanting.

The Commander.

Someone who upended Clarke's words with wordplay and harsh promises. The woman with eyes that shine in the dark, and the woman who made Finn kill himself. She's the one that had mockingly approached Clarke, letting her know to watch her words, before…

Before..

The arm not immobilised by the weight across her waist — that Clarke is surprised to find she's already discarded as non-threatening — flies up to her neck, sure there will be marks. Sure that something will have been left behind from… from the Commander's — Lexa, her mind supplies — teeth.

_What the fuck._

Lexa had bit her. Had drank her blood. It's only fair that Clarke is a little lost in the memories of reliving her life, and sharing it with another. It should be expected that she doesn't notice the arm around her waist tightening, and the warmth against her back shifting.

"You're awake."

Clarke's freezes in place. That voice belongs to someone she shouldn't be sharing a bed with. Surprisingly, the worry doesn't change to panic; doesn't chase away the distant feeling of safety that a warm bed and solid building evokes. She turns to find green eyes looking her over curiously.

"What did you do to me?" Clarke asks, her question lacking any of the heat and anger she'd felt last night.

"I took what I needed. Your blood." Lexa says, her lips curling ever so slightly at the corners. She winks. "You taste incredible, Klark."

And that shouldn't make Clarke blush. It shouldn't, but it does. Evokes images of Lexa eating something other than her blood. She attempts to shake the not entirely unwelcome thoughts away, needing to get answers.

"You saw my memories, didn't you?"

Clarke distinctly recalls reliving her entire life in the blink of an eye, though time had felt distorted, as though she was watching someone else live them. Lexa nods, not giving anything away.

"What are you?" Clarke demands, voice turning a little sharper, but still lacking the bite she hoped for. "I should be terrified of you, and what you can do." Alright, so maybe the sharpness turns more shrill and scared, but not of Lexa. For some reason she makes Clarke feel safe.

"I am a Natblida Vampire." Lexa states it simply, as if she's not just revealed herself to be a creature of the fantasy books that Clarke had read as a child. "Your people have stories of my kind, even if they are… fantastical."

"And Anya…" Clarke trails off, already certain. Lexa just nods.

"You do not fear me because we bonded. I did not anticipate it either."

_**Soulmates.** _

The word echoes between them, remaining unsaid, but audible to both of them. Clarke gulps.

"I will not harm you," Lexa oddly reassures. "In fact, my blood helped you heal."

Her eyes dart to a spot low on Clarke's neck, and her tongue darts out to wet her lips. Clarke feels the phantom sensation of skin piercing and knows exactly what Lexa is thinking of.

"You are still human. For now."

—

Clarke is still in a slight daze from the morning's revelations as Lexa leads her through TonDC, barely noticing the way people are looking at her. Looking her over. If she had, she might have realised that wearing the Commander's clothing is something out of the ordinary, but Clarke is still lost in the awkward moments when she had realised that Lexa had stripped her naked before putting her to bed. That Lexa was naked too.

The smell of food succeeds in pulling the memories away, albeit briefly, as Lexa pulls them to a stop outside a low but wide building. Inside, two long tables with benches run down the length of the building, one on either side. A group of warriors greet Lexa — their Commander — with respect written across every feature.

"Eat. You need it." Lexa places a bowl of something steaming in front of her. It's mushy and grey, with a sprinkling of berries on top. Another, much smaller, bowl sits in front of Lexa herself. She digs into the meal with speed and precision, while Clarke wearily eyes the spoon beside her bowl. "It's oat porridge. Grain and berries." As Clarke continues to hesitate, Lexa sighs. "Eat." It's not an order, not the way Clarke recallsher eyes flashing golden, but it's laden with authority and an expectation of being obeyed.

Clarke eats, her stomach helpfully reminding her that it's been a full day since her least proper meal, back inside Mt. Weather. The porridge is better than it looks, and before she knows it, her spoon is scraping the sides of the bowl. Another bowl takes its place before she even has a chance to look up, but someone sitting down beside Clarke steals her attention away.

"Anya!"

" _Skaigada (Sky girl),"_ comes the bored reply, though Anya's eyes are curiously flickering between Clarke and Lexa. The sight of Anya reignites something within Clarke.

"Where is Aden?" She asks, needing to know where he is. If he's safe.

Anya doesn't respond, instead moving to look at Lexa, but freezes in place at the steely glare she receives. The battle of wills doesn't last long, not when Lexa is Heda, and not while they're in public. Anya turns back to Clarke.

"I apologise, Klark." Anya doesn't clarify what she's apologising for, however. "Aden is with the Healer. He will be better soon."

"You will meet him later." Lexa cuts in, her smile from earlier in the morning firmly covered up by the same stoic expression she had worn when Clarke first met her. "Skaikru needs to be dealt with. The boy, Murphy, has been tended to by the healers. You will return him to your people. She pauses slightly, head tilting to observe Clarke's reaction. "You made a promise on behalf of Skaikru, Klark, and I expect their help in taking down the Mountain men."

"You have two days. Anya will go with you" Lexa's gaze turns from Clarke to Anya, who starts sputtering in denial.

Lexa simply raises a delicate eyebrow in response.

—

TonDC vanishes step by step behind the numerous trees of the dense forest; underbrush competing with low-hanging branches to obscure any sight of the village. It makes the trip more treacherous too, as Clarke discovers for the third time in just a few minutes, stumbling over a root that sticks out of the ground.

She hadn't been this flat-footed earlier. Hadn't been stumbling through the forest in a good imitation of her first day on the ground. At least, she hadn't been quite this unsteady.

"You're finally clean, try and stay that way."

Anya's delivery is cold and cutting. Acidic. And yet, underneath the surface of the biting remark, there's an edge of confusion. Lexa hasn't told Anya. Hasn't told anyone, and perhaps that's for the best. Just wearing the Commander's clothes had been enough to attract attention, as Clarke had finally discovered when they left the food hall to pick up Murphy.

She still can't believe how rapidly things have changed. How one small quirk of fate might have her the chance she needs. A chance to save her people from the Mountain Men. A chance at survival.

Clarke does her best to ignore Anya's comment, pretending not to have heard the comments. Her eyes start scanning the ground more carefully, however, observing how Anya and the warriors with them are travelling. Without the urgency of Mountain Men hunting them down, and with things finally set in motion, Clarke might just have time to learn something.

They carefully avoid the shiny and watery patches of mud, instead sticking to areas with denser grass and more pebbles, somehow knowing which roots are safe to step on, and which are slippery. Clarke's attempts at copying them goes marginally better than simply treading the carefully hidden trail leading to Arkadia.

Their other companion isn't as lucky, though. With a yelp that turns into a pained groan as Murphy slips on the mud and falls sideways into a bush, he curses their situation once again.

"Why do I have to go back? I would be better off alone!"

That question has plagued Clarke too, but the pragmatist in her knows why. Knows that it's a bargaining tool and threat all in one. Murphy is only with them to show the people in Arkadia that the Grounders aren't savages; that their version of justice closely matches what they had on the Ark, and what Clarke knows is in the Exodus Charter. She's heard her mom mutter about it too many times, angry with the thought of lashing people, should they ever make it to the ground.

"I want your wounds to be checked over by my mom," Clarke lies. "And you were witness to Finn's attack on the village. They deserve to know why he's dead now." That's not a lie at least, Clarke really does need Murphy to tell them what he saw.

She throws a glance back at the makeshift stretcher carried between two warriors. Warriors that had not wanted to carry Finn's body, but Lexa had seemed to know that Clarke's people would need proof that he had died a quick death. That they need a body to bury.

"Leave him here and take your posts. We're close." Anya calls out her order in a subdued voice, making sure her voice doesn't carry too far. "I have no desire to be shot, so we will wait here."

Anya turns to Clarke with a smirk and a raised eyebrow — eerily reminiscent of Lexa — as if daring her to go ahead. A flourish of her hand finishes the gesture, pointing to the sight of sunlight glinting off the metal of the crashed Ark, visible through the thicket ahead.

—

It turns out that having your back lashed makes holding your hands up very difficult and painful. A fact that Murphy gleefully uses to make Clarke go in front.

With arms stretched high above her, Clarke walks _slowly_ towards the closed metal gate in the large fence. A trace of worry worms its way through her at the sight of guards lining up on the walls. When the first rifle starts rising, Clarke finally realises what it must look like.

Despite her raised hands, she's still dressed in Grounder clothes. Light armour even, given the thin lining of leather under the fabric. At first Clarke had thought it a fashion choice, still so far from the heavy armour Anya and her warriors had worn during their encounters. Now though, staring down multiple barrels, she's painfully aware that she looks like a Grounder. Despite the situation, the thought doesn't feel wrong.

"Don't shoot!" She stops in place when another rifle draws up at her outburst. "I'm Clarke Griffin. I need to speak with the Chancellor immediately."

The minutes tick by uncomfortably. The rifles remain trained on her, but she can hear the faint crackling of a radio in the distance. She's honestly forgotten about Murphy when he steps up beside her, arms crossed around his torso.

"They haven't shot you yet, Princess. Think we can go inside soon?"

Metallic creaking fills the air as the gate slowly opens, and Clarke can feel Anya's piercing gaze leave her momentarily; no doubt to inspect the fortifications and identify any weaknesses.

"Clarke?!" Her mother's voice calls from the gate, moments before stepping out.

Before her mind even has a chance to process, Clarke is already sprinting towards her mother, completely ignoring the guards beside her. She's pulled into a tight hug, gasping out a strangled "Mom?"

—

The joy of seeing her mother is quickly replaced by a burning frustration and inability to get anything done. It takes far too long before Abby agrees to Clarke's request. Ages before the gate that had promptly closed behind Clark and Murphy groans before moving again.

Clarke waits impatiently for the large structure to give way to the nature surrounding the fallen Ark; a metal village that they've called Camp Jaha. It feels wrong. Unnatural. Much like how the air inside Mount Weather felt fake and recycled, everything within this village feels too sharp and sterile; metal buildings, metal ruins and metal fences all encroaching on a space that should be green and lively.

The Dropship, at least, was just a single structure in an otherwise green forest, with makeshift structures made of wood surrounding it. But this, this is not a place Clarke wants to stay.

The gate finally opens enough for her to step outside. Immediately she feels Anya's gaze land on her, even if Clarke can't see the Grounder in the trees. Can't see any of them, for that matter, but she knows the warriors are still there.

Clarke has tried warning Abby about the Grounders. About Anya and the warriors that followed them. About their skills and numbers, and about the existences of vampires. She knew she would be laughed at, but the words wouldn't form.

Every attempt left Clarke with an uncomfortable pull in her stomach, and an odd mixture of guilt and protectiveness flooding her. Murphy hasn't been much help either, but Lexa had personally commanded him to stay quiet about anything. Perhaps Lexa's command had influenced Clarke as well?

Clarke walks through the gate, nervously aware of the armed guards on the wall behind her. She stops closer to the forest, but still in sight of the guards as agreed with her mother.

"You can come out now!"

Anya doesn't waste any time, striding confidently out to meet Clarke. Together — side by side — they walk back into the metal village. Towards the interrogation that is Abigail Griffin. Once through the gate, they barely make it halfway across the enclosed space, towards the doors of the Ark.

"Get away from her!" Bellamy's angry voice fills the air, attracting everyone's attention.

Clarke hears a small sigh from beside her, moments before she notices the gun in Bellamy's hand. A gun pointed squarely at Anya's chest.

"Clarke, come here." He beckons with his other hand, voice soft as if calming a scared animal.

"Bellamy—"

"Clarke, you're safe now. You don't have to pretend any longer."

Bellamy interrupts whatever she was going to say, further lowering his tone of voice and gesturing more wildly with his hand for her to join him. The audience is watching raptly, growing larger with every passing minute.

The guards stay at their posts on the wall and near the gate, making no move to stop Bellamy. Clarke scans the crowd for any sign of her mother or the Council.

_Typical. Not there when you need them._

Bellamy's frantic gesture slowly stops as he realises Clarke isn't moving, instead moving his hand up to steady the pistol, taking more careful aim. The expression on his face doesn't mean anything good, Clarke realises. It's the same expression he had worn when Octavia had been injured and missing.

She makes her choice. Steps in front of Anya, preventing Bellamy from aiming at her. The murmuring amongst the crowd dies down as they take in Clarke's position as Anya's shield.

" _I'm supposed to protect_ _ **you**_ _, you fool."_ Anya's frustrated voice is just loud enough for Clarke to hear, but it doesn't reach anyone else. With a start, she realises that it wouldn't matter if it did, because Anya spoke her own language.

And Clarke understood every word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I'm celebrating the beginning of my holidays by staying up until 4am, what of it?

**Author's Note:**

> This story planted itself in my brain when I saw the prompt list for Clextober 2020 and just straight up demanded to be written.  
> Please let me know what you think of this take on a darker Lexa and a more 'helpless' Clarke. Really hope you will enjoy it as much as I have planning and writing it! :)


End file.
